Malcolm
by Jenna D
Summary: Duo returns to his old neighborhood in search of part of his past.


Malcolm

Infectious diseases ran rampant in this dingy part of town. Everywhere I looked, there was someone sitting on the ground coughing, covered with a nasty rash, bleeding, or, occasionally, dead. My companions seemed to be a bit queasy, looking like they would throw up. I have to admit, it did smell kinda bad. Rats scurried through the streets, eventually disappearing into sewers or a dilapidated building. 

But why was I here? Why was I dragging four friends through this pisshole neighborhood, you ask? Well, you see... I grew up here. And I was looking for something. 

Yes, me, famous Gundam pilot that I am, grew up in a crappy neighborhood in a colony that was unstable economically, politically and, when it came to the people, emotionally. The gap between the rich and the poor seemed to have widened considerably since I last came here. The housing projects that had been enviable when I was a kid were now run down and virtually useless. 

"Duo, what exactly are you looking for?" 

Heero's voice, somehow sounding softer than it usually did, broke me from my near-reverie. Earlier that day, when I told him I was "going home," he decided he was coming with me, and eventually, the other three did too. 

"My old... home," I said, hesitating. "Well, not exactly a home in the normal sense of the word, but I lived there for a while. I left something there a long time ago, and I'm going to get it back." _If it's still there..._ I thought. _After all, it's been seven years... I'm eighteen now._

"Well then, Maxwell, where is it?" Wufei asked, slightly irritated. 

I stopped and whirled around to face him. "Things have changed here. It might not even be where I left it," I snapped. "Besides, you didn't _have_ to come," I added. Turning around again, I kept walking, faster this time. Could Wufei not respect this? I mean, here he was, all honour and family and background and shit, and now he was getting pissed off about me trying to find a piece of _my_ background. From the looks on his face, I could tell he didn't approve of where I grew up. By then, I was fuming. 

I turned down a street that looked even worse than the one I'd been on before, as we walked deeper into the slums. We walked almost in the middle of the road. No one had cars here; they couldn't afford them. If there was a vehicle of any kind to be seen, it was either broken down, stolen, or a police car. Occasionally an ambulance. 

"Is this the street?" Quatre asked quietly. Geez, everyone was full of questions today. 

"Not yet," I answered, slowing my pace a little bit. "Here. Look for number eighty-five." 

Of course, 85 had to be at the end of the street. I'd forgotten... I'd forgotten too much... Anyway, I stood on the curb, staring at the door with my comrades alongside me, watching me questioningly. 

Heero put his hand on my shoulder. "It's not some_thing_, is it?" 

"Wha?" I turned to look at him, my feelings a mix of apprehension and confusion... maybe even fear. 

"It's some_one_," Trowa interjected. "Right?" 

I stared unblinkingly at the two. Quatre and Wufei seemed to share Trowa and Heero's suspicions. I shook it off, ignored them, and went inside. I shouldn't have even let them come. I shouldn't have come myself. But no... I had to... I promised... They could wait in the hall. 

The door creaked open slowly, the hinges rusty with disuse. Inside, the old paint was peeling, windows were cracked and boarded, and a rather prominent hole loomed in the middle of the rotting floor. The banister leading upstairs was falling apart as well, and it seemed a step was missing. I took a deep breath, and hold Heero, Trowa, Quatre and Wufei to wait here, I'd only be a few minutes. Then I bolted up the precarious stairs, without even waiting for their reply. 

The house had three bedrooms; two were empty, save for some broken furniture and trash, and the third held what I was looking for. I slipped in quietly. 

"You came." 

"Of course I did." 

"You brought people. I heard them." 

"They're staying downstairs." 

"Hm." A pause. "You've done good, little brother." 

"I suppose," I muttered. Compliments never meant much from Malcolm. Ever. He always called me "little brother," just to piss me off. We didn't look alike -- he had broader features than I and could have been quite a burly man if it weren't for years of malnutrition and disease. He was three years older than I, fiercely independent and unwilling to accept charity. Especially from religious groups, which is why he took off when the Maxwell Church took the rest of us in. I called him an idiot. He called me weak and overly dependent on others. At age eight, I went to the church. 

Malcolm could not be any different than me. I was loud, he was quiet. I was risky, he was conservative. I was fast, he was slow. I was a leader, he was a follower. I was hopeful and ambitious, he was cynical and reserved. He, like many others, wished he could get out of the slums. I, like few before me, actually _did_ get out. 

Even so, over the course of the ten years since we went our separate ways, I had continuously visited Malcolm, which usually involved sneaking out of the church, five minute visits while I made pit stops between or even during missions, and infrequent letters and the rare phone call. When I told him I was leaving the colony, three years after he'd rejected the church's offer of help, he was angry that I was "abandoning him." I promised to come back as soon as I could, and to send some money his way. I left while he was still filled with resentment, and perhaps even jealousy. 

But Duo Maxwell does not lie. That means not breaking promises. So, here I was, seeing my brother for the first time in seven years. I sat on the worn mattress he used for a bed and we caught up. I told him about my most recent escapades, he told me about what he'd done, which wasn't much. Malcolm couldn't hold a job to save his life, and in one year, he'd skipped along through nine different employers. Currently, he'd just been fired from another delivery job for failing to show up too many times. 

One could not help but feel sorry for the guy, including and _especially_ myself. Here was the worst case of an all-too-common scenario -- one sibling makes it big and lives a good life, while the other... doesn't. Now, I didn't exactly get _paid_ for my work as a pilot, but at least I had clean clothes, a safe (well, as safe as you can get in a war) place to sleep, and enough money that I could eat. Yeah, I lived out of Deathscythe's cockpit for a while, but it wasn't that horrible. Somehwere inside, I felt guilty, and that guilt was slowly gnawing its way up from the pits of my stomach into my heart. 

"Duo, you're a hero around here," Malcolm told me. 

"What? Me?" 

"Yup," he said. "Kids look up to you. None of them have even met you, but they hear about the kid from the slums of L2 who went on the save the world and say, 'One day, I'm gonna get outta here and do somethin' important too.' You give everyone here hope." 

I processed this information slowly, making a mental note to try to visit these kids sometime soon. "Damn, I'm a _role model_?!" 

Malcolm laughed. "Like it or not, little brother, yes you are." 

The one loud thing about Malcolm was his laugh, this deep, booming laugh that I'd always hated, and now I hated it even more. That laugh must've carried through the thing walls and floors to downstairs, because a few minutes later, there was a knock on the half-closed door. My secret was out. 

"Ah, so here are your friends," Malcolm said, a funny kind of smile crossing his face. "Why didn't you bring 'em up, huh? Embarrassed by your big brother?" He punched me on the arm. I glared at him. 

"So it was some_one_," I heard Heero murmur. 

"Brother, Duo?" Quatre inquired. 

I sighed. "Malcolm, this is Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, and Chang Wufei," I said, gesturing to each of them. "Guys... my big brother, Malcolm." 

Malcolm shok hands with each of them, acting with surprising professionalisim, inviting them to sit. 

"I was going to leave-" 

"Again," Malcolm put in, glowering at me. 

"How long have you been apart?" Trowa asked. 

"I haven't seen Duo for seven years," Malcolm answered. 

"But we parted ways long before," I added. The explanation ensued. 

After visiting with Malcolm for at least another twenty minutes, I began thinking about what to do. The war was over for good now. I had a comfortable job, I was on my feet even without a war to fight, and Malcolm... wasn't. I couldn't just _leave_ him here for another seven years, but I knew Malcolm wouldn't accept even _my_ help. But it wouldn't hurt to ask... 

"Malcolm, I want you to come back with me," I blurted out after another ten minutes of debating with myself. 

"Excuse me?" Now it was Malcolm's turn to be surprised. 

"Come back with me," I repeated. "I can help you get on your feet." 

"Duo, I don't-" 

"-Like accepting help, I know," I interrupted. "But you can't stay like this forever. Look at you. You can't hold down a job for even a month, you're living in a house that could fall apart any second in the worst part of town... There's so much you could've done with your life. And you're still young! You can turn your life around!" 

"Maybe I wasn't meant to be successful, Duo," Malcolm said. "Maybe-" 

"Maybe, maybe, maybe," I mocked loudly, jumping to my feet. "You always say that. Well you know what Malcolm? I've had my maybe's too. Maybe I should've stayed with you instead of going to the church. Maybe I shouldn't have stolen that mobile suit. Maybe I shouldn't have left the colony. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to sneak onto that shuttle. I took chances Malcolm, and look at where I am. I'm offering you a choice, and this is your chance. You can stay in this shithole and become a mere statistic, or you can come live wth me for a while and make yourself something better. What's it gonna be?" 

"You said yourself earlier that you were only 'comfortable.' Will you still be like that when I move in? Can you afford to support us both?" he challenged. "You even brought up that I can't hold a job." 

"It's not about me, it's about you, Malcolm! I am prepared to make some sacrifices to help you," I said, feeling nervous about the point he brought up. "I can help you out, but only if you let me." 

"Well... what if I do get a job? I'm horrible with money. Shit, look what I've done with what you send me," he argued. But I noticed the hesitation in his voice. I was breaking him down. 

"Ah, I could probably help you learn how to manage your money," Quatre volunteered. "I've been doing the books for our family so long. I could teach you." 

"Quatre..." I murmured. 

"Come on Duo," he said. "I don't mind." 

"I know a guy with a job opening at his restaurant," Wufei offered. 

Malcolm's eyes seemed to brighten. "Now one thing I am good with is food -- when I have it, that is... and you know it, little brother," he said. 

"See Malcolm? You know better things are out there. I-" I looked at my friends... "_We_ can help you out." 

"In some strange way, we're all... family," Trowa mused. 

I laughed. "Yup. So, are you coming, or does Heero have to drag you out at gunpoint?" 

Heero's gun appeared from wherever he kept it and he twirled it around his finger recklessly, the look on his face purely saying, "I'll do it, too." 

Malcolm gave us all a funny look and said, "All right. you win, little brother. I'll come." 

I pulled him up from the mattress and hugged him, tears nearly coming to my eyes. "You won't regret this," I said. 

"I'd better not," Malcolm grumbled. 

He packed up the little he had, and the six of us left the house determinedly, walking the streets until we'd left the neighborhood. 

Malcolm never looked back. 


End file.
